


In True Oswald Fashion

by foggys_cupcake_girl



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: A little bit anyway, Awkward Edward Nygma, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Clothing Kink, Drunken Flirting, Established Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Flirting, Groping, Insecure Edward Nygma, Jealous Edward Nygma, Kilts, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, No Smut, Oswald Cobblepot in a kilt, Smitten Edward Nygma, and can't drink without confessing his love for his sexy kilt wearing boyfriend oops, because Edward can't hold his drinks, but it's cute i promise, not in this one guys sorry, overheard confessions of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggys_cupcake_girl/pseuds/foggys_cupcake_girl
Summary: Oswald's outfit for his Christmas gala is...a little distracting, and Edward can't help but be enchanted.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	In True Oswald Fashion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redreaper86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/gifts).



> Inspired by [this fanart](https://black-eyed-creature.tumblr.com/post/637505674208821248) of Percival Graves in a kilt, and redreaper's commentary on it. Because hell yeah Oswald needs to wear a kilt, and Edward absolutely needs to see it. ;)
> 
> This is T-rated for the most part, but there is a little teeeeny bit of steaminess at the end -- just kissing and a little petting, nothing heavy. The rest of it is pure fluff ^_^

The Riddler has a problem, and it is called _my boyfriend is wearing a kilt and how the hell am I supposed to think straight right now._

It’s not like he didn’t _know_ he was dating a handsome Irishman. (Well, okay. Maybe he’s the only one who thinks Oswald is handsome, but whatever, he’ll just kill anyone who says otherwise so it’s fine.) And it’s not like he didn’t _know_ everyone was going to be dressed up tonight. And it’s not like he didn’t _know_ that as the owner of the Iceberg Lounge and the host of the party, Oswald would try and outdo himself in every possible way.

And okay, Edward definitely tried to look his best tonight too. His glittery suit is well tailored to show off his long legs and the muscles he’s worked hard to build up. And okay, maybe he has no leg to stand on because he’s trying to turn Oswald’s head too…

But for the love of all that’s holy, _Oswald could warn a man_ before he comes out looking like _that!_

The Iceberg Lounge has been transformed into a winter wonderland. The white tablecloths have been replaced with silver, the settings are all crystal and sparkle under the chandeliers and the hundreds of ice-blue fairy lights that frame the ceiling, the doors, even the dance floor. The moat has been frozen over and the surface of the ice sparkles, and there are hundreds, _thousands_ of icicle lights dangling from the ceiling and the bannisters and all the railings. It looks so beautiful that Edward’s first instinct is, _wreck it! douse the whole thing in blood!_

But no. This is not a Riddler-and-Penguin party. This is an Oswald Cobblepot, wholesome businessman, candidate for Gotham City Mayor party. And he is not E. Nygma tonight, he is Edward Nashton, friendly partner to said wholesome businessman, who will boost Oswald’s poll numbers by taking him from just another politician to a _token queer_ politician. So he has to be on his best behavior tonight.

 _(Well, if he wanted me to behave myself,_ Edward can’t help but think as he watches Oswald make his grand, fashionably late entrance down the grand staircase, _he shouldn’t have dressed like that!)_

Because Oswald isn’t in a suit, he is in a _kilt._ A gorgeous dark-gray plaid kilt that swings appealingly around his knees (which are just visible over black-and-gray knee socks, _be still my heart!),_ paired with a crisp white dress shirt, a black vest with pure white lapels, a black silk tie, and a shiny black patent leather belt (which Edward is just _dreaming_ of Oswald using to strap him to the headboard of their bed) to match his immaculate dress shoes. But of course the look wouldn’t be complete without the classic Oswald Cobblepot _I am better than all of you_ smirk, complete with the confident, room-owning walk that would put the prissiest model to shame.

Edward does not faint. Somehow. He also does not drop to his knees as Oswald comes across the room to him, reaches up to cup a tender hand around his cheek, and says, “Hello, lovely. I’m so sorry I’m late. Got held up at work, you know how it is.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Edward closes his eyes as Oswald stands on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. He once again, miraculously, does not pass out: Oswald smells so good it should be illegal.

For the whole night Edward trails along after Oswald like a puppy, his eyes glued to the motion of his boyfriend’s legs, calves flexing under those thick knee socks as he walks like he’s on his way to murder the Batman. For the first time he wishes he were shorter than Oswald, because watching him walk in that kilt…his hips swing a little (a _lot)_ as he walks, and it is absolutely beautiful, watching the way his ass moves, and Edward _really_ wishes he were at a better height to see it without making it very, very obvious that he’s staring.

Even just _standing_ there Oswald is gorgeous, all commanding and firm yet polite, and he’s not the tallest or most chiselled man in the room, sure, but he’s a _beacon._ He seems to draw people in, and Edward’s mouth waters when he hears Oswald take command of a conversation and direct it where he wants it to go. And he just stands there and his body is still in motion, the kilt somehow swirling even as he stays firmly in place, and God, Edward can only _imagine_ how much Oswald’s tummy must be jiggling under that kilt. It’s a hot image, one that almost makes it worth it to stand there and hobnob with rich jackasses all night.

Edward really hates these parties. He’d rather be killing than schmoozing. And he’s not a huge fan of Christmas. Too bright and cheery. It’s a cliche, of course, but Halloween, with the fun and chaos and pranks, is really more his speed. It’s considered “fun” and “tradition” to jump out from behind a wall and scare someone on Halloween—and very easy to make killing look like an accident at that time of year, too—but at Christmastime, well, that’s rather frowned upon.

And Edward especially doesn’t appreciate the slimy way all these businessmen talk to _his_ Ozzie. They should, he thinks as he watches the delicious way Oswald’s thighs move the kilt when he walks, be _worshipping_ him. Kneeling at his feet and begging his favor, instead of making superficial overtures or bribing him for their votes. They should be proud to vote for him! They should be _bragging_ about voting for such a nice candidate next fall, instead of making him promise to give them stuff in exchange for their votes, the jerks!

(The fact that Oswald—and hell, Edward himself—does the same thing to Falcone, Bruce Wayne, and all the other wealthy elite of Gotham seems totally inconsequential. This is different. This is the man Edward _loves_ we’re talking about here.)

At some point someone puts a glass of champagne in his hand and he sips at it idly, as one does. It’s like quantum physics, the way the waitstaff keep his glass full: the faster he sips, the faster they top it off. The level in his glass only drops maybe an inch over the course of an hour, and it’s only when a hand comes down on his shoulder and a voice goes, “Hey Eddie, you doing okay?” that he realizes he is standing in one spot swaying slightly.

“Uhhh. Yes.” He forces his eyes to focus. Dr. Crane, one of the Penguin’s bad buddies. Tonight, of course, he is just a concerned citizen, out to ensure Mayor Cobblepot, if elected, will allocate some of the city’s budget to mental health research and treatment. (Translation: gimme money to make my psychotropics, Penguin, or I won’t vote for you.) “Heya doc. Like the party?”

“I like watching you undress Oswald with your eyes,” chuckles Dr. Crane.

Edward looks over and sees their topic of conversation standing there schmoozing with some politician-type guys and scowls. “The damn losers don’t appreciate him,” he mutters petulantly. “He’s so…he’s so _smart,_ ya know? He could just…run circles around all these idiots. I just love his…his…that big brain ’a his, y’know what I mean, doc?”

Crane snorts into his own glass of champagne. “My analysis would actually be that you prefer his well-proportioned…well. Something other than his _brain,_ let’s put it that way.”

Edward leans against the bar and watches, dreamy-eyed, as Oswald walks a few feet away to talk to another group of smarmy political business types. His kilt swirls around his knees as he walks, lifting just enough to get the barest flash of thigh. Ungh. This just isn’t fair. “I want to take him home. Get him somewhere safe. These wolves in here, they don’t care ’bout my Ozzie. They just want his _money,”_ he complains, spitting out the last word like a curse. “His _flash._ His _status._ I _like him,_ ya feel me?”

“What, you’re saying you would continue to see him socially even if he weren’t one of the most powerful men in Gotham?”

“’Course I would!” Edward says indignantly. He turns to Crane and scowls. “I love Oswald because he’s like. The _best_ at coming up with evil plots! He’s got these sexy umbrellas—”

“—and isn’t that a phrase I never thought I’d hear,” Crane mutters.

“—that _explode!_ They go _boom,_ doc, like really go boom! And he’s got another one that’s all swirly and he can use it to hypnotize people and like. I kinda _tried_ not to look at it really but I _did_ and it made me feel all nice and floaty and you should _totally_ try it sometime it was like—like being high but _better,_ and—he’s got another one that functions like a _jet pack,_ you should _see_ the thing! It can like, carry him! And me! At the same time! It’s a lil skinny umbrella and it can _carry us both_ and holy shit, he _made_ it! Invented it! All by himself! He’s like _the_ smartest guy in Gotham, Batman _wishes_ he had my birdie’s smarts!”

“That good, huh?” Crane says dryly. “Well. Smarter than Batman. If that’s the case then by all means, marry him immediately.”

“I will,” Edward insists. “Because these assholes here they don’t appreciate him, they just want shit from him and I want him—I want him to be _happy,_ ya know? If that means I gotta sit here at this stupid party and watch people suck up to him I’ll do it—but like—” His lower lip trembles. “I wanna do a good job, ya know? I wanna be as good at this as he is, ’cept I don’t because I hate these leeches, but _he_ cares about it so I want to be good for him, know what I mean? I love him so much,” he says plaintively, “like, I love him so much I’d stop killing if he wanted me to, d’you _know_ how much you gotta love someone to do something like that for ’em? I just—it’s my job as his person, his _partner,_ to be good for him and I just wanna be good at my job because I love him and he’s _perfect.”_

“Wow,” comes a familiar voice from behind him, and Ed whips around and almost falls, the champagne glass tipping over and almost shattering on the bar. Oswald is standing there, looking deeply amused. “Didn’t know you cared so much, sweetheart.”

Edward isn’t sure whether he should be embarrassed or thrilled. So he settles on giggling and asking, “Hey, tell me this, honey…what weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?” He doesn’t wait for Oswald to answer. “A sparrow with a machine gun!”

Oswald just chuckles indulgently. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. I think we need to get you somewhere quiet.”

“I don’t like quiet—yeah, ’bye doc, nice talking to ya—” Oswald begins to tug him away. “I _like_ loud,” Edward insists as he is led off to one of the VIP private rooms. “I like loud messy stuff Ozzie, you _know_ that.”

“I do know,” Oswald says patiently. “But you’re a little drunk and I’d rather you not yelp our plans to poison the water supply with Crane’s scary hallucinogens and then vaporize the water to make everyone go nuts, to the entire city council of Gotham, okay? C’mon back here.”

Oswald tugs Edward along by the hand and Edward willingly follows, watching with unabashed longing the way Oswald’s lovely, ample backside moves under the kilt. “You’re so hot,” he sighs, and then giggles. “You’re hot, like, a flamethrower in hell kinda hot!”

Someone they’re passing by chuckles and remarks, “You got him wrapped around your finger, don’t you, Cobblepot? What’s your secret, huh? Get ’im hooked on your drugs? Or are you just that good in the sack?”

“Not here, Carmine,” Oswald hisses. “I need to get him undercover. We’ll talk business later.”

Edward lets Oswald sweep him into a private VIP room and settle him on the couch with a bottle of water. “You’re gonna me in trouble, sweetheart,” he teases as he sits down in the chair opposite Edward, his legs spread just enough to make Edward wonder what’s under there. 

That little shadowy spot right under the fold of the kilt that makes a tiny hammock between Oswald’s spread knees is just too much. Edward makes a little noise of longing and reaches out. “Not fair,” he mumbles. “Too sexy. Everyone was looking at you but they didn’t _see_ you, I could just tell they weren’t appreciating you. I wanna go out there and kill ’em Ozzie, they don’t deserve you.”

“You know—”

“C’mere,” Edward whines, and obligingly Oswald comes and sits beside him. With a rush of desire he’s barely kept at bay all evening he slides his hands under the hem of Oswald’s kilt, moaning in bliss at the feel of Oswald’s deliciously plump thighs under his hands. “Been wanting this all night,” he breathes, and Oswald lets out a little groan of surprised pleasure in reply as Edward feels him up with uninhibited joy.

In mere seconds Edward learns that Oswald is not, in fact, wearing underwear—a most wonderful discovery as it means that Ozzie's lovely, plump belly is fully accessible, and Edward wastes no time gathering up two squishy handfuls of it. “Love seeing you out there doing your thing,” he says as he squeezes and massages that perfect belly, “but all those sleazy politicians out there, they can’t have you, they don’t understand you, but I do because you’re _mine.”_ With that, he triumphantly leans in and crashes his mouth against Oswald’s.

Oswald catches up to his mood in an instant—or maybe he was already there, and just trying to be a gentleman and not take advantage of Edward when he’s obviously tipsy. “Mmm,” he hums against Edward’s lips, pulling him into his very soft lap. “You want me, sweetheart? Wanna do this right here and now in the back of my club?”

“I do,” Edward says, and then Oswald is kissing him something fierce and all he can do is melt into his lover’s arms.

Screw them. Screw them all. They don’t appreciate his Ozzie, maybe, but Edward does, and Oswald _knows that,_ and as long as his birdie knows he’s loved, then Edward’s work here is done…and from the way Oswald is kissing him, Edward must be doing a pretty good job.


End file.
